Blended Grey
by Skysky
Summary: Seven months have passed since the disbanding of Weiß; just as the youngest of those assassins settles into normal life, the enemy Schwarz returns to haunt him. (rated for shounen-ai in later chapters) - chapter one uploaded
1. Prolouge

_Notes!_   
  
Shounen-ai will occur in later chapters; no, I won't spoil the pairing for you.   
  
There will be some intensive series spoilers, mostly Omi-centric stuff. I'm an Omi author, that's how I work.   
  
The way I'm writing this story is different from my usual methods; I call it a posting method and it allows me to comfortably fit in more details and character workings than my normal writing. It takes a little longer to complete a chapter, but I generally end up far more pleased with the outcome.   
  
**Blended Grey: Prolouge**   
  
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The soft light of the midnight moon cast pale shadows over the ground, giving an ethereal glow to what should have been the hours of darkness. Few were out at the late hour, but there was one young blonde who braved the shadows, moving as silently as a gentle breeze. Years of habit had instilled him with the instinct to cling to shadows, to be invisible in the darkness of the night, such that even now, when those skills were no longer needed, he fell to them out of pure habit. That was how it was and would always be for him, one of the once proud hunters of the dark. There was no other way to be, just one with the shadows, never seen, never heard. Not until it was too late.   
  
Stepping lightly over a twig in his path, Omi paused to stare up at the moon, remember so many nights before, when there had been missions calling to him. He and the others had one lived like the night, killing the targets in its cover of darkness, being content and comfortable in a life of shadows. That, however, was no more. Weiß had officially been disbanded for its second time, this time a feeling of permanence settling over the remains of the group. Seven months had passed since their final mission together, where the intricate deception that had been their 'deaths' meant to fool the target into a sense of victory had won them back Manx and Kaori, at the cost of Akira. Seven months to the day it was that Weiß had received official word that they were to disband, never to hunt the dark beasts again. Seven months since he had seen or heard word from the three males that had been his closest friends since the forming of the group of white hunters.   
  
The past seven months had been lonely for Omi, the only one of the four to remain working with Kritiker. The organization paid his bills in return for his hacking knowledge and ability. His status as an assassin had been changed to a data retrieval agent. Meant less danger and more time for him to live his life. A living he had slowly begun to build up. At the moment, he lived as Tsukiyono Omi, university student. No second job (beyond the secret one Kritiker provided him) consumed his time any longer, but he filled the spare hours that had once been flower shoppe management with the endless homework and reading of the general studies course he had taken to.   
  
Speaking of that homework, he was on his way home from a late night study session at one of the dorms, a member of his study group housed there for the semester. He had spent the last five hours working on the latest oversized assignment for the basic economics course he was taking, one of six courses he had loaded himself with, of subjects ranging from economics to Literature to computing sciences. He wasn't aiming for a diploma of any sort, merely taking classes that caught his interest and carried some use in his life. Except for that Literature; it was a perpetual pain to him, being of a different structure than he had hoped when signing up for it.   
  
Shaking his head, Omi pushed those thoughts aside, reminding himself that he was done with his schoolwork for the night. Now it was time to head to the small apartment that was his own and get back to the detailed retrieval Kritiker had requested of him earlier that week. Then snatch a few hours of sleep before he got up for the next day's Literature lecture and computing lab.   
  
About to turn out and off of the campus grounds, the youth paused, hearing the sounds of a scuffle and a few voices just beyond the manicured bushes that made Tokyo University. Curious as to what could possibly be up at the late hour, he crept towards the concealing greenery, blinking wide sapphire eyes in surprise at the scene that was presented to him.   
  
*   
  
There was always one more than he could handle.   
  
That had to be some sort of twisted rule designed to take down even the most skilled of fighters. Always just one more than could be defeated. And it wasn't like the movies, where the hero could just whip out some sort of secret weapon and save the day; no, this was reality, and in reality, life sucked. There was no secret weapon, just three people there when all you could really handle was two. At least, he figured there were three people. Considering that he was beyond a state of dead drunk, it was amazing he could count at all, much less decipher which thug was the real one, and which of the multitude of images were the fake. Maybe he was off by one or two people in his tally, but he could just blame that on there being a twin in their ranks, present just to screw up his count.   
  
Stumbling back from the three (or however many) people who had decided to appear in his path, he brushed away fire-toned hair from jade eyes, the feel of a confidant, if drunken, smirk touching his lips. So here he was, at midnight, in a dark shadowed park, facing three men who did not look pleasant. They certainly couldn't be Boy Scouts selling cookies, or doing their good deed of the day, not at the late hour. And considering their confident, smug, bastard looks, he could swear that they had some sort of nasty plan to involve him in. Probably trying to steal his money or something; though such was impossible, considering he was flat out broke, just as he had been for the last six months. When they found that out, they would likely try to beat him for the simple reason that he was the idiot for not carrying money when he was being mugged.   
  
Letting out a low, nasal chuckle, he shook his head. Stupid humans, thinking they could take on the guilty one himself. And triumph at that. Not likely; Schuldich was never taken down that easily. "Nein, nein, you don't want to pick on me," he said, gazing at each (or who he figured was each) in turn. "No money, no valuables... Just me, and you really don't want that kind of thing, do you?"   
  
Exchanging glances, the one up from grinned, shaking his head. "You're a fool to be walking around so late without a thing to be taken," he informed the German, who seemed to be tilting unnaturally from his drunkenness. "You see, then you just become a waste of time to people like us, who make a living off of the money of others." Nodding to his two friends, he kept his dark eyes on the foreigner, the pair moving around to roughly surround the male. "And we don't like wasting our time."   
  
Snorting, Schuldich half-tracked each person through the general blur that was motion, pretty certain that he could find them again if he really looked. Hopefully, he wouldn't have to, if his telepathy worked at all. What he wanted to do was just make them think he was boring, someone to pass up and leave alone. However, he couldn't quite get his mind to work up the logic of points A through D, which was slowly screwing him over in the matters of mind altering. Damn alcohol tended to do that to him, he'd really have to find a way around that drunken handicap. Either that, or give up drinking, but that was the last thing he would do. Not after being alone for six months, since his realization after recovering from the dip in the sea (along with the building) that Schwarz was completely gone, their minds lost in the sea of humans and water. He'd not been sober once since realizing he was now alone in the world, and damn if he would give that up for the tricks of telepathy. Bah, that was overrated, especially when alcohol so nicely soothed the hurt of being lost as he was.   
  
Well, if the telepathy wouldn't work, maybe he could talk his way out of a beating. Fighting might have worked, if coordination was even the slightest bit possible; but that wasn't, so it was talking he needed. "Ja, ja, then don't waste your time," he replied, his words slurring together into a mumble. "You go on your way, and I'll go on mine, which is to the next bar." Nodding, he moved forward to illustrate his point.   
  
Tut'ing the attempt and slowly shaking his head, the leader stuck out an arm to block the German, who stumbled back upon walking into it. "No, you've already wasted our time by being here," he explained, teaching the dirtied logic of simple street thuggery to the telepath. "Now we have to teach you that doing that is stupid, and I hardly call a good lesson a waste of time. Ne, guys?" There was a murmur of agreement from the other two, one of which began to slowly crack his knuckles as slight hint to what the lesson plan was.   
  
Glancing back, blurred emerald peered out from streaks of orange fire, narrowing at the other two. Hm, the logical talking route wasn't working. If he had been Nagi, he could have just floored the three and walked away. However, he wasn't the telekinetic, and all that thinking about the kid did was bring up an oddly sharp stab of lonely hurt amidst the unfocused mess that was the alcohol in him. That was hardly pleasant; he drank to forget about the others, not remember the pain of being away from the few people he could ever associate with and call friends, or even family. They had been linked in their odd abilities, making them a strong team to face the bastard society that rejected them all. Now they were shattered and gone...   
  
Making a soft 'ch' under his breath, the German sized up his options. He could sit back and let them beat him, he could run, or he could try to fight back. Sitting around was immediately discarded, a sense of pride making him unable to just take a beating. Running was for cowards, and he was not a coward. That left fighting... If he was able. What the Hell, why not?   
  
Turning without warning, he merely launched himself unsteadily at one of two behind him, slender fingers pulled into a fist which rammed itself home on the bastard's nose. Smirking as he fell, the German turned to the other two, striking out hard and fast, even if his aim was a bit on the bad side. Well, he was drunk! The fact that he'd landed his first punch was a miracle in itself. All he could hope for was that luck stayed with him as he swung his arm around again.   
  
Luck was not with him.   
  
In the few seconds it had taken him to floor the first male, the second had moved in and brought his own fists into play, ramming one hard into the German's side. Letting out his breath sharply, Schuldich could hear the crack of bone, his ribs too exposed and weak from the starvation he'd put himself through in the uncharacteristic depression that had taken him in his solitude to handle such a strike. Not eating tended to have a detrimental affect, it seemed, leaving no padding to absorb such a solid blow. He would be feeling that in the morning, and for the next month or two.   
  
The fact that clear injury had been given hardly slowed down the next blow, striking him full on the stomach and driving what remained of his breath from his lungs. Snapping out a slurred German curse, he fell to his knees, arms wrapped around his midsection as he glared at his opponent through strands of orange, pain haunting emerald depths. "Sa, such rudeness," he spoke, his voice low and broken by gasps drawn in to recover the air taken from him. "Here I thought Japan welcomed the occasional tourist." Smirking at the two remaining, he shifted his weight to one knee, trying to get his other foot underneath him so he could stand again.   
  
That was promptly flattened as a fist crashed into his back, striking up pain right between his shoulder blades and driving him to the ground completely. Laying there for a moment, he ignored the physical hurt, concentrating instead on breathing, which was becoming oddly difficult. Then again, with at least one rib broken (by the sounds and hurt of it), it was to be expected that he'd become short of breath. It was unfortunate that he could not just ignore that and function fully in a fight. No, he was restricted to the hurts of a normal human, something he occasionally cursed about. Farfarello really had been the lucky one, to be able to just grin at being kicked, stabbed, and generally maimed by both his hand and that of others.   
  
Now, if he could just get back on his feet, then he could beat the bastards into boneless pulps and liquefy their minds as a lesson to never touch a telepath. The problem was, every time he tried to move, they struck him down again. This was going to prove annoying...   
  
*   
  
Holding a hand against the brush that was constantly attempting to obstruct his vision of what was going on, Omi stared in what could only be coined as disbelief at the sight greeting his sapphire gaze. Seeing the Mastermind of Schwarz was hardly what he had expected. After six months of silence from Weiß's most powerful and persistent enemies, Omi had begun to believe in the truth of the odds of surviving the fall into the sea. It had been a miracle that the four white assassins had lived through the crumbling of a building atop them and the subsequent drop into the sea; for anyone or anything else to have made it was simply impossible. Or not, considering what he was witnessing right at that moment. After all, not even ten feet away from his position was Schuldich, very alive, and very drunk from the looks of it.   
  
The question standing was what he should do about it.   
  
Leaning back on his heels, his form crouched low to the ground for concealment, he pressed his thumb against his teeth, biting the nail lightly in thought. Hesitation shadowed his soft blue eyes, which shifted to each member of the scene in turn as he considered what it was that could be done. Or should be done, for that matter. Morals and logic were arguing in his mind about how to handle the situation. On one hand this was something he should attempt to assist in, his skills more than enough to handle three half-skilled idiots picking on the innocent in the night. One the other hand, their innocent of choice was hardly that innocent, as his chosen name depicted. Schuldich was a cunning creature of the shadows, an enemy to the young assassin's mind and habits; hardly someone who should need help, or who even deserved it. The German was responsible for so many deaths, so much pain, that he deserved nothing but suffering in return.   
  
However, something was holding him off from simply passing judgment. Part of it was his nature and dislike of such things; it was far more fair to let a person prove themselves rather than be labeled. And then part of it was the man's situation itself. Schuldich looked especially thin, as though the six months since their last encounter had brought him no food worth clinging to his bones, and there was the flat truth that the man was clearly intoxicated beyond focus. Such things were additives to highly unfair odds, which Schuldich had already been facing without those factors keying in.   
  
So, the question indeed was what he should do, or if he should do anything at all. It was against his basic nature to help one of the 'bad people' that Weiß had existed to eliminate, but it was equally against his character to just walk away from three-to-one unfair odds.   
  
Sighing softly, he rocked his weight back a bit, his mind working fast to find a solution to the situation before it got worse or inadvertently involved him. The saving grace in Schuldich's case was that he had never been named as a specific target for Weiß to deal with; it had just been horrible coincidence, either manufactured by Fate or the telepath, that had crossed their paths before. While Omi did label targets as bad people, those who never appeared on a mission tape or in a file were generally given a chance to prove themselves, since the path of judging and labeling others was one that only ended in torment, assumptions, and an overall mess. Even one such as Schuldich could be given a chance in that, he supposed. He had done nothing but judge the telepath from day one, of course with certain good reason, but seeing the man broken and bruised as he was now faltered that deeply held belief in the label. How could a cold bastard be as intoxicated and messed up as Schuldich was at the moment? True evil had no reason to be drunk, pathetic, and easy targets, not to the point of injury. Right? Well, it certainly seemed to fit.   
  
Wavering on the edge of his decision, Omi drew out the black cellphone that was his contact with Kritiker, a finger idly tracing the white cross mark along the casing as he turned it over. Concealing it under his hands, he muffled the slight beeps as much as possible while he dialed in the number to speak with Birman, who still stood as the Kritiker agent that he reported to. His intention was to call her and have her arrange for some of the organization loyal police officers to come deal with the thugs. While he could have, the risks were a little high, and he was wary of it being a possible trap set by Schwarz, cleverly planned and executed. If he was going to make a move, he wanted resources to back him up.   
  
Lifting the phone to his ear, Omi held his breath as it connected, still watching the scene and holding a mental prayer that this solution would not prove itself too late in its fruition.   
  
- tbc -   
  
  
  
**Author's Note:**   
This is going to be a definite multi-chapter fic; don't come pestering me for what's going to happen, because I have no clue. I'm letting it form up as it goes. ^^; As for thsoe of you following my other fics: I am working on them, I promise! Weiß Schrecken has half of the next chapter finished, What We Deserve a little less. Even Fstive Distress is starting to come along nicely. Will work on all my incomplete stories, especially Blended Grey, over the next few weeks/months. 


	2. Chapter One

_Notes! Again! =P_   
  
There will be some intensive series spoilers, mostly Omi-centric stuff. I'm an Omi author, that's how I work. There will also be shounen-ai, and if that doesn't agree with you, then don't read this.   
  
The irony of the situation is that the way I write Blended Grey, in theory, takes longer to produce a chapter than my normal method. Yet, I've gotten this chapter out faster than I have any of my other stories. Weird, ne?   
  
**Blended Grey: Chapter One**   
  
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Things had almost proven too late.   
  
By the time that the dispatched Kritiker agents had arrived, Mastermind had undergone a serious beating. Somewhere along the lines he had lost consciousness, which had sparked Bombay into action. It was that action that saved the German from the death that had most certainly been before him. Bombay had held off the thugs until the agents could arrive, at which point they were dealt with and their bodies removed from the scene. Nothing existed on the scene of the fight to say that anything had ever happened. Perhaps a bloodstain or two, but few would be able to tell it from dirt on the path. As was token to their existence, Kritiker had simply made disappear all evidence of any crime.   
  
Now the matter was to deal with Mastermind.   
  
The telepath had been brought to Magic Bus, the police-controlled hospital where the organisation had the greatest influence. Trustworthy doctors had seen to him, declared a total of four ribs broken as well as a multitude of bruises from the beating. In addition, the general verdict was that Mastermind was weak and far too thin for his size and frame; something that suggested Schwarz was no longer as influential or powerful as they once were, to be leaving their prize telepath so poorly tended. It was that suggestion that perhaps Schwarz cared not about where Mastermind was that had him still in the care of the hospital, rather than simply killed for past crimes. Kritiker heads believed that he might hold key information about the rival group, as well as the mysterious SZ organisation that still seemed to exist after the defeats it had felt; and if no one was going to retrieve the telepath, they had luxury time to question him.   
  
Birman did not agree with that decision.   
  
Standing outside the telepath's hospital room, her arms crossed lightly upon her chest, the Weiß 'secretary' narrowed her eyes some as she gazed through the observation window. While she felt not emotion or instinct that told her that a trick or plan was now set in motion, Birman simply could not accept Mastermind being weakened to the point of a child. A mindraper like that would not ever be so helpless, so she simply distrusted the sight before her. Were it her place, she would be arguing with the higher-ups about moving him to a secure location, instead of letting him sleep - if he indeed were even sleeping instead of seeming so - in a room where security was minimal. Nothing about it felt safe, and that was the root of her problems.   
  
The fact that Bombay was in the room, alone, with Mastermind also failed to settle her mind.   
  
The blond youth had volunteered to observe the telepath and report his awakening immediately, if it even occurred - given the man's current health, that was indeed up for question. After a great deal of discussion with Birman, he had even succeeded and was now into the third hour of his watch. No weapons were with him, it having been decided that it was better to have nothing available to be used as a weapon should Mastermind awaken and desire to fight. In essence, the boy was defenceless against a man who had many times attacked and hurt him, in body, mind, and soul. Having partially raised Omi, Birman was feeling the natural parental instinct to get her assassin away from that bastard.   
  
However, she easily realised how impossible it would be to get Bombay out of there. He was as stubborn as his uncle had been, and twice as persistent. The only way she would manage to get him from that room would be when she had an agent to replace him in watching Mastermind. That was still hours away, though; Bombay was too alert to be removed from 'guard' duty at the moment. So she would have to wait, and would watch through the glass to be certain he was okay.   
  
Sighing softly, Birman chewed the inside of her lip in an uncharacteristically tense fashion. Watching. Waiting.   
  
*   
  
With the morning light filtering through the drawn shades, casting faint colour upon the patient of Kritiker's interest, Omi might have sworn that Schuldich did not look half as evil as the past had proved him to be. Laying asleep, the German seemed almost peaceful, all traces of his injuries' pain drawn away by the soothing touch of painkillers. Even the long orange strands of unruly hair, which were tainted by an odd lack of care, lent to the soothingly calm appearance of the other; it presented a soft halo that lightening the harshness of features all too often plastered with the defiant smirk of a man who took pleasure in ruining the lives of others. In all, it gave the sleeping telepath an air of innocence that the Weiß assassin knew was false in every fashion. There was nothing innocent about Schuldich, the most basic proof of that being the man's name. Innocent people did not call themselves 'guilty' on a day-to-day basis, nor did they list their hobbies as 'mind raping' or 'ruining the lives of little white kittens'.   
  
Curled up on a chair in the far corner, the back facing the bed and his arms crossed lightly over it, Omi dismissed the almost errant train of thought about the truthless image of innocence that was currently being presented. Such things were not something he could afford to focus on; he had taken on a task that required attention and observation to detail. To let his mind wander aimlessly around that would be to fail, something he refused to do on any level. A literal lifetime spent training to be perfect at his task did not leave room for failure or errors.   
  
Still, despite the resolution to perfection, Omi could not stop his thoughts from wandering off on other tracks, such as why he even bothered to help the German in the first place. That, in itself, defied all terms of personal logic, given their history. He should not have wanted to help the one person that made it a favourite past time to ruin what little life and family he had left. To assist the one who orchestrated the fateful night of Ouka's death, or kidnapped and handed him over to his own brother for torture, was hardly a notion that should ever have crossed Omi's mind. So often he had claimed his hate for the German's actions, and his sorrow for the result; to feel anything but bitter anger towards the man now was odd in itself. But he had felt something different, which had stayed his decision to help the other, instead of watch him feast upon the fruits of fate's revenge.   
  
Sighing softly, Omi raised a hand to brush away a few strands of hair from his eyes, the sapphire depths not once moving off of the telepath's still form. The question of why he had helped the other still hung powerfully in his mind, but the answer to that was dancing safely out of his reach. There was the faint hope that the German could answer a few of those questions, simply by waking and acting as he chose. Any sort of motion instead of laying still might prove helpful. Yet, no signs of waking were being shown; it was as if the German wanted to remain unconscious to frustrate the young assassin further with a lack of answers to endless internal questions.   
  
Omi would not give up so easily, though; he had volunteered and argued for the position on watch in order to be present when the telepath did awaken. If nothing else, it would be through perseverance that he found the first answers to his questions. He intended to have the first few moments of privacy with an awake telepath in order to ask a few questions to help with his own; there was little Kritiker could do to stop him. Having been the agent that found one of the organisation's most wanted, he had a basic right to be first at him when he was ready. And it was exactly that which Omi intended, even if it meant pulling the seniority that a lifetime as a trained killer had given him within Kritiker.   
  
Problem being that he needed the telepath to awaken and soon. Birman would not let him remain on solo guard for too long, thus time was of the essence. Fortunately, he had patience to keep his company for the moment, as he sat there and simply watched. And waited.   
  
*   
  
Darkness was such a welcome thing, after the blurred nightmare of living without Schwarz; Schuldich held tightly to that darkness, unwilling to re-emerged into the hateful light of society and the little 'perfect' world it had created. Ha, perfect, that was laughable. A perfect world did not cast out a little child to the streets just because he heard voices not of his own concoction. A perfect world did not hate someone that could read every though in their little sheep-herded head. No, a perfect world did not do anything that the current world did, yet it was still called perfect. Schwarz had meant to awaken the world to their imperfection, but that had not been meant to be, apparently. The once proud group had fallen, or rather simply disappeared, and the perfect world went on with its life, oblivious to the loss of the influence that could have changed it all.   
  
Finding that the society he so wanted to ruin was invading even the silent darkness of his mind, Schuldich relinquished, with some disgust at society invading his quiet and rare privacy, the concept of finding a bit of mental peace after months of thoughtless disarray. With that, he allowed the unwanted path of waking up to claim his mind and body, slowly losing his grip on the darkness he could have happily spent an eternity in.   
  
The first thing he noticed, though it was hard to miss by any stretch of the imagination, was the sudden return of all the voices as his mind, and telepathy, began the rise from the unconscious. What could only be a thousand words jumped into his mind, all at once, and obliterated the delicately built paths for his own thoughts. That was to be expected, though, since the voices never left him alone. The only time he'd ever been able to escape those voices was with Schwarz, who had all had a varying degree of silence to their minds that he could hide himself in. Those silences were, as had been for months, absent from his reach for sanctuary. All he found, in weakly stretching his telepathy in that search, was sickness on nearly all sides. Mental and physical pain not of his own doing surrounded him, threatening to confuse him as to which was his, and which was belonging to others.   
  
Damnit, that meant he was in a hospital. Schuldich _hated_ hospitals, with something more than an utter passion. The pain of humans could be delightful to savour, yes, but not when it was of another person's doing. He preferred to feast upon the hurt his words could inflict, not those brought by the touch of another. It was like the subtle difference between cooking a gourmet meal for one's self and then eating at a restaurant - the latter always lacked the personal taste and flair that made the home-cooked meal more enjoyable, rather than just an overpriced plate of someone else's cooking.   
  
The question that hung just out of his reach was the why of the entire situation: Why was he in a hospital? As far as he could remember, amidst the haze of alcohol, he'd been in a park or something before. How did one get from a park to a hospital in the stretch of sleeping darkness? Unfortunately, there was only one answer to that, it being he had to finish waking up and find out for himself, as he had to do for everything in life. If you wanted something done, it had to be done by yourself.   
  
With a slowly muttered German curse, his voice roughly overlaid from a lack of use, he opened one jade eyes, and immediately shut it as the lights above him seemingly pierced straight through his head, awakening the start of what was likely going to be a painful hangover. "Mein gott, someone shut those lights off," he growled, trying to raise an arm to cover his poor eyes before they got assaulted by the evils of brightness once again.   
  
Almost immediately, accompanied by a slight shuffling sound similar to the movement of feet, the lights of the room flickered off, their lost presence lessening the pressure on his still closed eyes. Warily opening the jade pools again, he let them focus on the now darkened ceiling. Once he was certain that he could make heads or tails of a coin, or whatever it was he saw, he started the slow search for whoever had shut the lights off.   
  
And found himself staring into the piercing blue gaze of one Bombay kitten, his former favourite assassin playtoy. A familiar face in the last possible place he could have expected to find one. Not just any familiar face, but one that was known to very much hate him and want him dead.   
  
Damn, how the hell had _that_ happened?   
  
- tbc -   
  
  
  
**Author's Note:**   
Bah, I take so long to write. This chapter is both long, and short in so many senses. I couldn't find a better place to cut it, so here I did. Comments/crits/reviews are always appreciated.   
  
Next chapter posting? Don't know. School starts again on September 5th, so I might be busy keeping up with my writing-gaming and unable to work on many fics. I'll try and get it done as the inspiration comes along, but with so many fics in the works, I can't predict which will get a new chapter first. 


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